


Cherry Road: The Extras

by thatoldbroad



Series: Cherry Road [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Prostitution, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-05-02 09:05:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14541342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatoldbroad/pseuds/thatoldbroad
Summary: Sequels, prequels, and scenes from the cutting room floor.Written for the lovely people who gave love to the original.





	Cherry Road: The Extras

**Author's Note:**

> Keith's POV following Chapter 4.

Later, Keith will remember Shiro’s words: 

_you ungrateful shit_

_you fucking liar_

_you’re not anything special_

He will try to forget them. But he cannot. Not for a long, long, long time. They will return and keep returning. He cannot stop them from returning.

He will remember Shiro telling him: get out. The way he stalks to his nightstand, swipes his wallet, turns it upside down, and shakes it and shakes it until it’s empty. The rain of money to the floor, the scatter of green that stuns Keith breathless. The punch of air from his lungs that leaves him dizzy and faint. And his fall. He will remember falling. But not the painful thud of his knees when they hit the floor, or the tremble in his hands as he picks up each bill, a reminder of his worth: a whore. He is a whore. It is all he is and has ever been to Shiro.

He runs. He will not remember running. But he runs and runs and runs until his feet hit concrete, until the cold burns his cheeks, until he can’t breathe. But the words chase him. They catch him. He cannot and will never outrun the words.

They overwhelm. They narrow his world. He cannot see, hear, feel, touch, taste. Even his sense of time is disabled.

He does not know how long he waits for the cab. He does not feel the bite of the wind even as he shivers while waiting. He does not hear the driver ask him for his address or his voice saying it. He does not see the traffic lights turn red, yellow, green, or the flood of streetlights that swathe the night in gauzy silver.

He does not process the cab stopping on Clover Street, across the side exit to Kolivan’s. A sober thought pierces through the haze: I’m here. But that’s it. That’s all the words allow. They spare no more: not the walk up the stairs and the scatter of dust under each of Keith’s footsteps; not the rough feel of the bannister under his palm, the paint on it flaking from age, negligence, and water damage; not the jangle of his keys when he pulls them out; not the way the door sticks, as he does each time, and refuses to budge until he knees it open. Or how he kicks off his shoes, slides off his jeans, slides into bed, pulls the blanket to his chin, and shakes and shakes and shakes.

He will forget most of that night and what he forgets will stay lost.

But he will remember how _everything hurts_.

Everything hurts. To breathe, to move, to exist.

_

 

Keith does not sleep. For hours, he drifts in that liquid space between sleep and wakefulness, where there is no end, no beginning, and the material world is tinged surreal and passes as dream-like. When sleep does claim him finally, it claims him completely, mercifully. He sleeps the dead of the dead, untouched by pain.

Much later, he wakes and not on his own, but to gentle hands that shake his shoulders and pull him upright. A soft, familiar voice urges _you have to eat_. It slides into his consciousness like a caress and he thinks for a moment: Shiro. He feels relief. Even joy. Then the words return. And the hurt. They slam into him like an ocean wave, cold and brutal. His chest seizes.

A thumb grazes his cheek. He blinks his sticky eyes open and sees Hunk. His kind, kind face. And the knot that had begun to form in his chest loosens. In its place gratitude swells. His eyes go wet. Tears prickle at their corners, and Hunk waits. He does not turn away. But Keith does not cry. He is too spent for it.

Hunk has brought stew. The smell of it - and, oh, Keith can smell again - makes Keith’s stomach growl. He finds himself leaning forward toward the spoonful that Hunk raises to his mouth. He opens it dutifully, as if he is a child. He is passive in the role, neither encouraging or discouraging it. He is too weary for either. It is too much effort to do more than: breathe in, breathe out, chew, and swallow.

After, Hunk does not leave, but shifts Keith on the bed until there is room for both of them, shoulder to shoulder against the wall. He props the tablet the he has brought on their laps and opens Netflix. The Great British Bake Off, Jiro Dreams of Sushi, The Walking Dead, Breaking Bad, Daredevil, Jessica Jones - a blur of film and hours go by. 

And Hunk does not ask: what happened? He does not say: it will be okay. They don’t talk at all.

_

 

Days pass. Hunk visits every day. He brings Keith food and, after a time, Keith takes over the responsibility of feeding himself. They watch endless hours of television and movies. Sometimes they exchange small talk: a remark about the weather; the latest gossip at Kolivan’s; an observation about a show or movie. But mostly they are silent. And Hunk still does not ask: what happened? He still does not say: it will be okay. And he won’t. But he leaves that door open, in case Keith ever decides to walk through it.

Shiro’s words continue to occupy space. They are unwanted company that impose themselves in the silence, when they loom large and loud in Keith’s head, and follow Keith to his daily, ordinary activities - to the bathroom when he pisses, and after, when he can bring himself to leave his room, to the laundromat while he washes his clothes, to Cherry Road while a john fucks his mouth.

But the hurt diminishes. Slowly, gradually, like a faucet that dries up. He becomes less an open wound walking, and solidifies a new layer of wall, of anger. The anger is good. The anger returns him to himself, to his memory of before. It reminds him that he has a job to finish.

Tonight, perhaps. He showers, dries off, and dresses efficiently. He straps the blade to his ankle and smooths the pant leg over it. Perhaps the Cherry Road sadist will come for him. Finally. And when he does, Keith will be ready.


End file.
